The flashbulbs pop. The gueststurn.
We walk down the aisle together. Shoulder to shoulder. Midnight blue and Navy.
As we pass the pews, I see the faces.
I see Rosa, weeping into a handkerchief. I see Enzo, judging the break on my trousers. I see Tripp trying to AirDrop his crypto-pitch to the choir boys. I see Sloane scanning the exits for potential ambush points.
And I see Alistair.
He is in the front pew. He is weeping openly. Great, heaving sobs that shake his shoulders. He isn't hiding it. He is looking at Max with such fierce, unadulterated pride that it hurts to watch.
But then, he glances behind him. At Catherine.
She is sitting stiffly in the second row, isolated in her white gown, staring straight ahead with a frozen smile, visibly shrinking under Meredith’s gaze from across the aisle. She looks perfect. She looks lonely.
Alistair looks at her, and the light in his eyes dims. He looks like he wants to reach back and take her hand, but the pew acts as a barrier. The distance between them is only three feet, but it might as well be the Atlantic Ocean. He turns back to us, wiping his eyes, choosing the joy over the history.
We reach the altar.
Luke and Preston are waiting for us.
Luke gives me a wink. Preston steps forward to Max. He adjusts Max’s tie.
"You made it," Preston says softly.
"We made it," Max corrects.
"You calibrated correctly," Preston says, his voice losing its snark for just a second. "You broke the cycle, Max. You look... sufficient."
"Sufficient," Max smiles. "High praise."
Preston grips his shoulder. "I’m right here. Your flank is covered."
"Thank you, brother."
They separate. We turn to the altar.
Archbishop O'Malley is waiting. He is leaning heavily on the lectern. He beams at us, his face flushed with "The Spirit."
"Mawage," O'Malley begins, his voice echoing through the cathedral with a distinct, slurred lisp. "Mawage is wot bwingsus togeder to-day."
The congregation freezes. I bite the inside of my cheek.
"Mawage," O'Malley continues, squinting at his book, "that... cursed—" He stops. He blinks. He squints harder at the page. "—I meanbwessedawangement. That dweam within a... nightma—" Another pause. A long one. The candle beside him gutters. "—dweam. Within a dweam."
He looks up at the congregation with the triumphant expression of a man who has just defused a bomb.
"He's doingThe Princess Bride," Luke whispers in awe.
"He thinks he's Peter Cook," Preston mutters. "Or he's had a stroke. It's a coin toss."
"We are gathered here," O’Malley says, switching back to his normal, booming Irish brogue, "to join... Maxwell... and... Jackson!"
He got the names right. No Jennifer. I let out a breath.
"In the eyes of God," O’Malley says. "And in the eyes of the new Pope! The Italian fellow! You know the one—excellent taste in loafers, very progressive on the rainbows. Bless him and his pasta!"
O’Malley raises a hand to the ceiling.
